


Blueberries

by omphale23



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he waited until Fraser took off on patrol again (looking at him, he was always <i>looking</i> and never said why) and dragged out the weird-looking juicer and got to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueberries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklinegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/gifts).



> Thanks to [](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/profile)[**slidellra**](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/) for an instant-beta.

Ray was starting to feel like his time was up. Fraser hadn't said anything (he never did) but the sun was out almost all the time now, and it turned out the Yukon could be green and (sometimes) warm and Fraser still hadn't said anything.

And that was maybe all that needed to be said. Maybe that was his answer right there.

But Ray had always been crap at knowing when to let go, when to say it was over, when to get on a plane and wave (kiss) goodbye. So he waited until Fraser took off on patrol again (looking at him, he was always _looking_ and never said why) and dragged out the weird-looking juicer and got to work.

Well, no. First he hauled himself all over the bushes outside of town, looking for tiny blue bits of nothing. It took forever, finding the berries and pulling them off the bushes and figuring out that only the dusty ones, the ones that looked like they'd been sitting on a shelf for a while, were any good to eat. By the time he got done, Ray had juice smeared all over his hands, across his cheek (and he had no idea how that happened). His boots would never be the same. But it was worth it, because he also had a big bowl of something that just might (maybe, hopefully, fingers crossed, turn around and spit) manage to get through to Fraser and convince him that Ray was good to go, ready for this. Someone worth keeping around, someone who would do anything, even if it meant scratches and bears and fucking _cooking_.

And if that didn't work, maybe he'd get lucky and a couple of drinks would knock Fraser's hesitation out long enough for them to talk (say something important).

In a couple of days, Ray had something that looked like grape koolaid and tasted (sort of) like blueberries. A little club soda, a little (a lot) of vodka, some music (not too fast, not too slow, sex and drums and promises) and when Fraser walked back through the door, Ray was ready.

He wasn't even smiling (he was grinning like a loon) when he handed Fraser the drink.

And Fraser, who should absolutely have tasted _something_ in it, even if he didn't suspect (trusted, like an idiot) Ray would spike it, just smiled a little and threw it back.

Okay, politely sipped it. The point was he drank it.

***

Ray was far too pleased with himself when Fraser got home that night. Not that he wanted Ray unhappy, but it was unnerving to see him bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning and snapping his fingers and pushing a glass of…something into Fraser's hand.

Fraser raised the glass, staring at the murky liquid. It smelled interesting, although the whiff of alcohol made it clear that Ray's shimmering excitement had nothing to do with his kitchen prowess.

Ordinarily he'd refuse, but suddenly Fraser was tired of being (polite, lonely) responsible. He took a sip, held back a grimace, and swallowed.

Ray's face lit up, which made the taste (somewhere between cough syrup and antifreeze, only with the bite of vodka and carbonation) worth it.

***

His plan didn't really cover what would happen if Fraser drank the vodka. He sort of figured it wouldn't work, that he'd get a lecture on the evils of alcohol and then maybe they'd sit and stare at the walls for a bit. But Fraser drank the whole glass (his ears were turning pink), and Ray poured him another, and he drank that too (his eyes were soft and he kept smiling at Ray) and after that, Ray stopped counting. When he thought about it, he dumped a little more of his mix into Fraser's glass (three, four, five), but mostly he just sat on the other end of the couch and watched Fraser. Who was watching him.

And still not really saying anything.

Ray was all out of plans, so he figured he was done, gone, nothing left but the credits.

He glanced down at his knuckles, rubbed his hands together as he thought about (second chances and history and things that couldn't be spoken out loud) nothing. He hadn't gotten the purple off his fingers, and Ray sort of wondered if he'd be around long enough to find out how long the stains would last. He thought they'd be blue, like loss and longing, but they weren't. And they might never come out, which would be fine because when this didn't work he would take something with him.

He leaned forward to climb off the couch and start packing, but Fraser's voice stopped him.

***

The look on Ray's face was what broke him. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was months of staring and not touching and the way that Ray slept on his back with his arms sprawled across the sheets.

Maybe he was finally losing his mind. Whatever it was, Fraser suddenly couldn't sit silently and watch Ray get farther away.

He started talking, and he wasn't sure which of them was more surprised by what he said.

***

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Fraser looked up, and he licked his lip (he was nervous, Ray made him nervous) and he started talking. All this stuff came pouring out, and Fraser was talking faster and faster, telling him that he'd been watching, been staring at Ray like he couldn't get enough, thinking about him all the time until he thought he would go crazy. Thinking, and biting his tongue, and laying silently on his bedroll waiting for Ray to fall asleep before he stood up and watched him sleep all night.

Which was a little weird, but Fraser shrugged and half-smiled and changed the subject to all the things he loved about Ray.

***

His smile. The way he looked the day he finally learned to mush the dogs, the smell of his shirts after chopping wood.

The streak of grease on the back of his knuckles, one afternoon when he decided to repair the snowmobile. His shouts of triumph when it roared into life.

The back of his neck, where the muscles corded at night and the grunts Ray made as he tried to relax with a beer, sliding bonelessly onto the floor and leaning back against Fraser's knees. The crease on the inside of his elbow. The hollows and planes of his collarbones.

Tanned skin and laughter and the conversations about nothing that mattered and arguments about hockey and…

Fraser knew he was blithering, but he couldn't seem to stop. Couldn't quit once he started, which is why he hadn't started, and Ray's jaw dropped and he stared and this was it. This was the end. Fraser took a deep breath and clenched his jaw, waiting for the punch.

***

After a list that made Ray think maybe there was a reason Fraser was (paying attention and listening all along) so fucking good at his job, he finally trailed off. They looked at each other, and Ray didn't blink.

Fraser nodded, and held out his glass for another drink. He didn't look happy, looked like someone had kicked him, and that was all wrong, not what Ray wanted, not fair.

But he shifted, leaned over to pick up the bottle and looked down at the glass. Took it out of Fraser's hand, because this wasn't (right, enough, an ending) fair. Fraser didn't know, might not remember any of this, and that hurt (stung, ached, burned in his throat like words he couldn't say) but he deserved it.

He should have known better. You never look away from a guy about to snap. So when Fraser jumped him, made Ray drop the glass as he toppled backwards, when Fraser planted his palm in the middle of Ray's chest and shoved, it was Ray's own fault that it worked.

***

Ray's mouth opened under his, Ray's hands grabbed at his hair and pulled, his hips shifted and suddenly they were stretched out on the floor. The glass clattered out of the way, spilling juice across the room that later Fraser would try (unsuccessfully) to scrub out of the floorboards and his uniform.

He grabbed at Ray, wrapped around him and leaned in, stripped them both bare. Ray laughed as they tangled together, and Fraser nipped at his jaw and held him down as he tasted skin he'd been staring at for months, tasted Ray and blueberries and nervousness and finally it all made sense, what Ray wasn't asking for, what he wanted to give. It made sense, and Fraser was an idiot for not seeing, for watching and missing all of this, the entire point, the story that Ray poured into Fraser's mouth as his eyes closed and he shook and cried out.

Ray's hands trailed across his skin, fingers stained dark and Fraser wanted to wake up with faint purple streaks smeared across his hips, the taste of blueberries on his tongue.


End file.
